Bloggledygook

Aren’t animals amazing? You can go through your life only occasionally connecting with something with four legs, happy enough to be out on your own, bipedal and independent. And then bang, you see a photo like this:

And your heart lurches.

Look at this dog – does it not look as though he is deep in contemplation of some utterly random thing? Does that crazy mop of curls on the top of his head not look strangely, humanly, familiar? The wee eyes?

I think this dog is my dog soulmate. If he were not in Arizona, he would be mine. Sigh.

Levi Johnston, the impregnator of Sarah Palin’s daughter Bristol and now the thorn in her side, will be posing nude in Playgirl. This is not news, but I had to share this rather hilarious attempt at spin from Johnston’s manager, the awesomely named Tank Jones (I just hope he’s a nerdy scrawny accountant type):

“The shoot was fantastic! People are going to see more of Levi than they thought.”

Here’s my question: if it was already announced that Levi Johnston was going to be totally naked, and therefore everyone already thought they would be seeing the little ‘Salmon and Igloos,’ if you catch my drift, then what on earth will they be revealing that is more than we thought? Will there be pictures of his colon? Vocal chords, maybe?

Only Tank Jones knows for sure.

Hey, remember the eighties? I know, I barely do either, I was seven when they ended. But they were by all accounts a magical time, a time when leggings made their stance as clothes for the first time, giant puffy crimped hair seemed like a good idea, and a magical convergence of the culture made such films as ‘Teen Witch’ possible, something for which I am eternally grateful. And now, I am doubly grateful for the eighties, because they gave us this:

Please note that the team is called the ‘Bad Boys’ (From the San Francisco Bay Club! Of San Francisco!). Please also watch for the dance moves I have officially called the ’saucy monkey’, the ‘aerobo-ics’ and, my favorite, the momentary ‘funky camel’

I have now two post drafts in the works, but until I can get my lazy butt in gear to fix those, I give you lovely people this, blatantly stolen from the delightful Fred Lassen, and one of my favorite things possibly ever. Enjoy!

The wheel. The printing press. Shout wipes. Sometimes in human history an invention comes along that so perfectly addresses the needs of humanity that you can almost hear the click of progress moving forward. And now, thanks to American Apparel, I think I just heard another click.

I have been wearing tights for most of my life. From those adorable striped Hannah Andersen ones whose colors were the inverse of my dress when I was five, to the itchy ones I had to wear to nice occasions when I was ten, to the colorful ‘I am expressing my individuality by dressing like a Medievel court jester’ mid-90s atrocities I thought were cool in high school (note to previous self: not actually cool), there hasn’t been a time in my life where I didn’t have a pair or two lurking in a drawer or making me try to remember for the billionth time whether they can go in the wash. But despite their remarkable ease of use, their ability to magically cling to your legs, to provide shape and support, to add modesty or change the tone of an outfit, there has always, always been one consistent flaw with hose. For no matter what the pair, whether opaque or sheer or control-top, I always find myself thinking “gee, these are comfortable and all, but my butt feels so constricted!”

Yes, the problem of the caged posterior. How can we in good conscious wear these garments which so cruelly pent in a body part born to fly free, to feel the fresh air and the sun on its skin? Is it really fair that we keep our junk locked away inside our trunks? Why call them buns if everyone knows that baked goods become stale and lose their taste if they’re put in containers!! Ladies, we have been oppressed too long by the conventional tights, which so cruelly and uncomfortably consider our butts to be in the same category as legs. No more the awkward consistent coverage, no more treating it like just what we sit on – the butt deserves to be in its very own spotlight.

And thankfully, American Apparel has heard our call. Yes, for $28, you can live the dream of so many, for so long, and wear assless tights:

Humanity thanks you, Dov Charney, for this entirely necessary and not entirely mystifying new product.

However, despite the sense that my life is now nearly complete, I am still missing the other holy grail of practical wardrobe solutions, the ‘only cut out around the boobs’ tee shirt. Can you get on that, Dov?

I just saw this photo from Isabella Rosellini’s Sundance Channel ‘Green Porno’ series, and clearly I must now watch it, as I must be involved in whatever could create this image.

I think this photo might represent my secret soul.

First of all, sorry for the bloggy delay – I just got back from a most delightful, escargot/goulash/wurst-filled trip to Europe, which I will post about soon (maybe with photos, if I am not too lazy/incompetent!).

So apparently Maine has rejected a state law that would allow gay couples to marry. Now I am not particularly political, and on this issue I have utter faith that gay marriage will be legal within the next few years just because it is the way the world is moving, and humanity is bad at attempting to stop the intertia of its own forward movement*. However, this bums me out. What’s up, Maine? Hmm? You guys seemed so chill, with your rocky ocean coast, expansive woodlands, and proximity to Canada, all of which should make you more likely to relax and let people be what they are, and less likely to adopt the shrill panicked ‘the apocalypse is nigh’ shrieking of many of your American brethren. So I’m mad at you right now, Maine. I reject your flinty New Englanders and your moose and your blueberries. And just as a reminder that you are being irrational, I give you this video, from the beacon-of-all-things-wonderful The West Wing, so that you can think about what you’ve done.

*One of my most favorite quotes, and one that pretty accurately represents my nebulous political philosophy, is Victor Hugo’s “An army of men can be resisted, but not an idea whose time has come.” Brilliant, right? Gay marriage is an idea whose time has done. Suck it down, Maine. Suck it down hard.

I have always been fascinated by odd careers. I thought if I ever wrote quirky novels, my neurotic, bookish, yet sweet, wry, and sweet heroine would be the person who paints the murals behind the animal displays at the Museum of Natural History. Because really, who does that? And it must be fun, right?

Anyhoo, this weekend I had an odd little experience that added another bizarro career to the list. I was puttering around Sephora, as I am wont to do, and decided to revisit that stalwart classic, Clinique. I was pleased to see that they have now created a gloss version of their cult favorite, looks good on everyone ‘black honey’ (good call, Clinique, even if it is about ten years later than it should be), and then decided to continue my never-ending quest for a natural looking lipstick (you see, I have a distinct ‘tell’ as to whether I’m sick, hungover, or tired – my lips go white. Like, literally devoid of color, fishbelly white. It’s not pretty, but neither is that range of brownish tans or ballet slipper pinks that tend to be marked ‘nude’, so I’ve been looking off and on for something that will make me look not like I am wearing lipstick, but also not like I should be found in the first five minutes of ‘Law and Order’ by curious schoolkids playing in a dumpster).

As if by magic, my hand was drawn to a peachy pink simply marked ‘24′ and nestled in amongst its many brethren. I tried it on, and lo, it looked like I had gotten a full night’s sleep, like my cheeks were blushier and my eyes were brighter and I could be kin to the fat baby cherubs painted on cielings, and whom I could swear were now singing somewhere far off. I thought I may have found it, but thought I should wear it around for a while, see how it wore. So I looked down at this beautiful corally pink, this peachfuzz color, this hues of the first glow of sunset color clutched in my hot little hand to find the title, and read ‘nearly violet’.

Now, readers, I was confused. This lipstick was many things – SPF 15, potentially the answer to a long search, high-impact according to the marketing – but the one thing it was most definitely not, by any stretch of the imagination, was violet. Or anything close to violet. I even thought to myself of the actual violet flowers, thinking that perhaps I was forgetting the rare breed of peach violets, but no go. Violet is purple, and this color was as much ‘nearly violet’ as it was ‘nearly ultramarine’ So, I asked a salesgirl, figuring perhaps Sephora had made un petit error and marked the tube wrong, and that I would end up going home to open up a garish purple tube by accident. But no, the salesgirl’s response when I said ‘this is marked ‘nearly violet’, but appears to be the least violet color ever’ was ‘yeah, they shouldn’t have named it that, should they?’

No, Borderline Rude Sephora Salesgirl, they shouldn’t. But I looked at the display, with no fewer than 85 different shades ranging from light pink to dark brown, and thought about how many years Clinique has been coming up with names for shades that are only different by virtue of a slight frost in one, perhaps some SPF in another, and I felt their pain. It can’t be easy to come up with a bajillion names for the same thing. However, if you’re going to stick with the idea that each name should be vaguely related to the color it represents (the same line has a ‘metallic sand’, which sounds like something that would send you to the hospital after a day at the beach), and the best you can come up with for this color:

Is ‘Nearly Violet’, I think it’s time to retire your namers, who are clearly either running out of inspiration or, frankly, going a little blind. And, since you’re hiring, hire me! I’ll give you my first name on spec – for this lovely shade, which shall soon be tucked into my purse, I suggest ‘Berocca’, after the magical Australian hangover remedy.

You’re welcome, Clinique.

I love Australia. This is not a secret; in fact, it is such a large and obvious part of my makeup that it is a source of great mockery amongst my family and friends, and probably rightly so. I am able to identify an Australian accent at fifty paces, keep the second clock on my computer set to Sydney, and have been known to say ’she’ll be apples’ in an embarrassingly unironic manner. So, it follows that there are many things that cause me to want to jump on a plane for the little 25-hour jaunt down under; a craving for eggs at Bills, the thought of the purple Jacaranda flowers against the red brick roofs of Sydney, the awesomely quirky yet classic stuff they sell at Cue and seemingly nowhere else. Hell, sometimes waking up or breathing makes me ache for the land where women, um, something, and men plunder (?).

That being said, on occasion there is something that happens that makes me very nearly grab my passport and catch the nearest taxi. Most recently, that was the news that Geoffrey Rush will be starring in ‘The Drowsy Chaperone’ in Melbourne. Yes, my friends, Geoffrey Rush, one of the best actors on the planet, capable of both making up one of the most touching and honest acceptance speeches at the Tonys and then partying until the wee hours (I saw him when I was leaving the giant Hair party and he was walking in saying he hoped his Tony would get him in, then heard tales of his presence at the infamous ‘omlet party’ later that night), will be bringing his own wit and magnetism to a delightful musical. So Aussies, buy your tickets, and make a reservation at Bill’s (well, it’s Melbourne, so the Supper Club) with an extra spot for me.

I’m sure that this video was exactly what he had in mind when he wrote ‘Let it Be’ with Paul McCartney.

Just on a side note, is it common for the Russian military to be dressed like the Stay Puft Marshmallow man from Ghostbusters? Because I really hope so – talk about the element of surprise.